INTO THIN AIR
Never lie, cheat, steal or drink.
But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love; steal away from bad company; cheat death; drink in the moments that take your breath away the most.
Done all that 9,645 feet above sea level, on the highest point of Luzon – Mt. Pulag (also known as Pulog) in the Gran Cordillera with climbing buddies of a decade Cris Comendador (Mandaue City) and Christopher "Boyet" Oyangoren (Iligan); with newfound buddy Russell "Rusty" Jorbina (Manila) whose initial attempt at mountain trekking took her to a major climb despite the 7/9 level of difficulty. This was made possible with the help of our most-able sweeper Leovi Villordon (Leyte).
It was an imperfectly timed assault. Common sense would warn us that February's tail-end of a cold front forecast all over Northern Luzon did not assure that sunburst and that ocean of clouds that make Pulag a byword in the climbing circle. The ascent has been a decade-old aspiration already; however, economics dictate that to pursue the dream with a bigger group would mean cutting down the cost to as much as sixty percent.
To climb Pulag is no joke. The jeepney fare rate alone ranges from P8,500 to P10,000 per 15 passengers from Baguio City to the Akiki Trail jumpoff point in Kabayan town where we were destined for a traverse back to Ambangeg in Barangay Daclan, Bokod or at the office of DENR Protected Area Superintendent Emerita Albas. For every seven climbers, there is a required porter-guide who could collect a minimum of P400 per person. So even when the porter only brings two kilos of our rice load and a few packs of noodles, we have to stick to the rate, as that is how the system works up there. Besides, this has also provided porter-guides of the Kalanguya tribe a means of generating income to support families, so climbs also transpire into a humanitarian support for our indigenous people.
The state weathermen predicted the onset of northeasterly winds (amihan) which could bring strong winds and rain. But we were more afraid of the skyrocketing fees, so off we pushed through with the plan but not without a raincoat to protect us from the expected downpour. At PASU office, it was learned that two weeks prior to our friendship climb, the summit of Mt. Pulag recorded a low negative three. We drooled at the idea of frost, finally tasting one if permitted, but the thought of the numbing thin air chilled us to the bones. Boyet sustained a bone injury on the right hand so the news, in a way, troubled him as the cold could send the hand black and blue with the annoying throbbing sensation.
True enough, at quarter to five a.m. on the third day of our climb, together with the rest of the eager beavers, I was scrambling my way up Mt. Pulag. Still disorientated from the taxing ascent hours before from Camp 1 (which for some time gave us the feeling of comfort with its proximity to Eddet River, a flood of moonshine, star-spangled skies, a carpet of pine needles littered all over, and the soft "eddet" which means grass in the dialect of the Kalanguyas); aircool set naturally at 16 degrees Celsius.
It was easy to wake up at the agreed time of 3 a.m. because my reticular formation responded well to the itchy stimulus of summitting. Going out of the tent however became the greatest challenge. (This is what's nice about uncertainties, surprises are constant.) It was so cold outside at six degrees and the wind blew like a mad dog licking endlessly an open wound. At 3:40 am, I got my share of steaming coffee. But geez! It only took six seconds from one hand to the next to Cris' and then to mine – then I could sip the coffee right away. In a matter of minutes, it was cold as chilled frapuccino. That quick!
Despite the veil of mist, I had to be oblivious of the cold wind giving my tummy the freezing feeling which sent me throwing up while on my way to Camp two hours ago. I had to connect with my now almost frozen senses that I have to be strong for the last leg. That I have to be determined to go even when only a few have now huddled before the coffee station to mark the ascent. The others chose to engage in deep slumber as there would be no sunburst anyway. The temp registered eight degrees, and my gloves were now soaked, my face dank; I was ill prepared in protecting my hands that's been experiencing tingling sensation for four years now. They say it's nerve aging. I forgot my petroleum jelly, of all necessities. The numbness now gives me the frost bite feeling Everest stories mentioned, but my heart was as warm as boiling water. I managed to brush off the stabbing feeling of windburn. I had already come this far and there's no way stopping was an option. My bloating brain registered: Just sustain the strides, crawl if you must, gain momentum, and arrive somewhere!
Energy drains faster in cold zone, so four of the LED lights of my rechargeable head lamp were already out after two hours of use. I had to make do with what the eight remaining bulbs in their honeycombed-designed cells could afford. Good thing that the summit is barely a twenty-minute walk from Camp 2. Ten years I've waited for this to happen, here it was. The excited feeling was building up with each mud-logged step. My heart again raced wild, the soft tumtum transpired into the heavy lub-dub which took on a strange rhythm, the call to survive was even louder over the rest of my attempts in the past ten years of this pursuit – even wilder than that I felt when I did ascents on Hibok-hibok (Camiguin), Talinis (Negros Oriental), Kanlaon (Negros Occidental), Magdiwata (Agusan del Sur), Pinatubo (TarlacZambales), Arayat (Pampanga), Kalon-barak (Sarangani), Bandilaan (Siquijor) , Cabalian aka Kantaytok (Southern Leyte), among others. That was the first time I did summit on an early morning where the world was still pitch dark, haze was a curtain too wide to pull to one side, the rain was a monster out to devour what little courage remained in us. The strange rhythmic patterns were out to prove something: the spirit always willing even though the flesh was weak. No way your heart could fail you, for it had beaten this good and this right!
Seeking a "grand retirement climb," I confessed to climbmates I was already unfit for most of this type of journey, so I had to rush now to finish my own list of seven Philippine summits before invalidity would strike its talon on me. Vitality was never the same as that when I was 17. It was so much different when I was 27. So now at 40, I had a dizzy headstart for Pulag in an attempt to kiss the peak being third of the remaining priorities: Mt. Halcon (Mindoro) and Mt. Apo (Davao-cotabato) to tick off my to-do post-it. I had to race against physical wrinkling, the brittling of bones, and sagging hope.
Aside from that, I have to be reminded that for everytime I climb, it does make sense of the inverse to the theory of the earth's gravitational pull. It's not at all times the center of gravity pulls you down. In some ways, it is up, where you're drawn to the thing you love most, be with superb company, not troubled at all about the reality of death; and the best moment you would want to get drunk in.
More seasoned climbers told us Pulag doesn't welcome noisy ones, and we got alarmed because 46 trekkers are no joke to the ecology. The night prior, a Kalanguya guide even asked one of the organizers to turn down the volume of music played by a group. Well, this is one of the bloopers of mountain climbers, confessing they love to commune with nature, but would still bring a live testimony up there of the mad world they temporarily left behind. I didn't only overhear the upset tribesman, I was there chatting with them in their makeshift shelter where they are the only ones licensed to spark a bonfire. Thank goodness though they have praises for us Cebuanos, as compared to a school- based popular mountaineering group in the country, we are described tobe "easier to manage" (hee hee).
So, there was already a hint Pulag wouldn't be so pleased with our big, noisy group. Still, I prayed that the guardian – may he or she be from the court of Kabunian – would be so gracious to at least give us five minutes to enjoy the top, just like what Kan Laon spared when we implored him to lead us the way to Mount Kanlaon last year after we got completely gobbled up by fog for hours and drowned in intermittent rains.